Total War s-1 Page 12

  There was the recognizable framework of a huge tank truck, black and gutted, amid the wreckage of a large commercial jet.

  "We're not going to land here," Rourke said. He throttled forward and got the nose up, banking as gently as he could to get south of what had been the city. The ruins vanished from beneath them; the ground turned into scrub brush and sand. Rourke throttled down again and slowly played the instruments to get the plane's altitude down. "I don't know exactly how low or how slow I can get this thing and still be able to keep air speed. And if I lose engine power, this thing will fall like a rock. Hit that seatbelt light and get on the PA. Tell the stewardess to get everyone into a crash position."

  Rourke scanned the ground. Silently, he prayed that he could have some idea what he was doing. As far as landing went, there was no similarity between the 747 and military fighter aircraft he had flown before. Bringing this down was like playing Russian roulette with all chambers full.

  He squinted against the morning sunlight, watching the altimeter, the fuel gauge and the other instruments. He heard Mrs. Richards alert the passengers for a possible crash.

  By the time Mrs. Richards had finished the announcement, Rourke was banking the plane gently, having climbed in order to accomplish the maneuver. "I picked out our landing field, Mrs. Richards," he commented. "Nice, flat stretch about five miles long with no trees to speak of, back about twenty-five miles. I'm going around for a try. We can only do it once. I'm letting us run out of fuel to minimize the risk of fire. One other thing I want you to do. Alert the stewardesses that as soon as we get down on the ground, I want everyone out of here as quickly as possible and as far away from the plane as they can. And I want you in a crash position right by the escape chute in the main cabin. You've done great."

  "Won't you need me to help?"

  "Well," Rourke began, "I don't believe two of us can land this thing any better than one. And you've got a cool head. That's going to be needed if anyone's going to survive after we land. Chances are good the cockpit will get the heaviest impact."

  "You mean you'll be killed, and if I don't stay with you, I'll have a better chance of staying alive."

  "Yeah, pretty much. Goes back to what we talked about last night. That you opt for life. Anything else is irrational, Mrs. Richards. You don't strike me as an irrational person. And I'd bet that your husband wasn't the kind of guy who'd want you to give up on life."

  Rourke brought the plane into another banking maneuver to line up for his final approach. He glanced at Mrs. Richards. She said, "Are you a psychiatrist too, Mr. Rourke?"

  "Only the bargain-basement kind," Rourke said, smiling broadly.

  "That's the first time I've seen you smile." She rose and started back toward the forward passenger cabin, then turned to him and said, "I hope you make it-and that your wife and children made it too." She leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.

  Quietly, Rourke said, "Thank you, Mrs. Richards."

  As soon as Rourke heard the cockpit cabin door close, he settled himself back in the captain's seat and tightened the lap and shoulder restraints. He fished in the breast pocket of his jacket for his sunglasses to fight the glare from the sand below him. Slowly, he throttled back, stepping down the 747's altitude. The plane was close to the ground now. It raced away beneath the nose of the big jet; it was as if the air speed were a hundred times faster than the readout on the instrument panel. He dropped the landing gear, and the green light indicating that it was locked in place flashed on. He throttled back more. The starboard engines nearly stalled, but he held the speed, skimming less than five hundred feet above the scrub-dotted desert floor.

  The 747's nose started to drop, and he brought it up.

  The starboard engines almost stalled again, and the altimeter needle started dropping. He punched the PA button and talked into the small microphone attached to the radio headset. "This is Rourke-brace yourselves for impact!"

  He tried bringing the nose up, throttled back almost all the way, and let the engines nearly die as the landing gear touched ground, bounced away, and touched again. He throttled forward slightly, using the engine compression to slow the plane as it raced, skipping on the landing gear, across the desert floor. His mike was still open, and he rasped, "We're down but not stopped. Stay in the crash position!"

  The plane wasn't slowing as much as he wanted. Rourke stared ahead. The ground dropped off less than a mile away, and he didn't know what was beyond it. He worked the starboard flaps, and the plane started to turn. Mentally, he made the choice. He cut the engines and decided to burn out the brakes. He brought the flaps on both wings all the way up. The plane was starting to slow down, but in front of him was a stand of tall pines. "We're gonna hit," he rasped into the microphone which was inches from his lips. His face was drawn into a tight mask, his lips pulled back, his shoulders set. The brakes held for a moment, then, suddenly the plane lurched, and there was no more pressure.

  Rourke could see beyond the stand of pines now. A rock face rose up from the desert floor. Already, the nose of the cockpit was cutting into the trees. He threw his arms up in front of his face and doubled forward. He couldn't see, but the sound was like a thousand chain saws, the pines crashing down on the plane.

  The plane lurched and suddenly came to a complete stop. He looked up. The windshields were cracked, shattered, but still holding up. Trees were all around him-pine branches virtually covered the front of the fuselage. He sat for a moment, breathing heavily. Then he fumbled for the microphone.

  "This is Rourke. We're down. Now get the hell out of the plane, but don't panic. Everything seems fine." He tossed the headset down, then tore open the seat and shoulder belts and pushed out of the captain's seat.

  When he had thrown open the door, he stopped. The portside of the forward cabin's fuselage was almost completely ripped away. A large tree jutted into the cabin, like a can opener. People were screaming, and he knew that others were trapped in the wreckage. As he started back to help them, something on the floor caught his eye. He looked at it for a moment, then turned away and leaned against the bulkhead. It was the severed head of Mrs. Richards.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  "We'll be together soon," was all the president could say as his wife and children left his office in the Mt. Lincoln complex. He had tried to tell his wife, without letting his children know. But he couldn't find the words. Bobby's face and his wife's were the last faces he saw, as his family turned down the corridor. Bobby was still holding the spaceship. The president turned to Paul Dorian who was standing in the corridor.

  "They've landed?"

  "Only in token numbers, Mr. President-and they're pushing the timing on the neutron radiation a little at that. Those cities-like Chicago-are still hot."

  "Paul, what about the Eden Project. Did it get off?"

  "Yes," Dorian said, his eyes downcast. "Without a hitch, sir."

  "Then maybe there is some hope after all. Send in the chief of my Secret Service detail."

  "Mr. President, you can't do this."

  "I have to-if there's going to be any United States left. It's not a country, a land-mass, Paul. I finally see that. The United States is an idea. And if I don't do this, the idea may well die. I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

  The president took the outstretched hand of Paul Dorian, then walked back into his office and sat on the couch. In a moment, the chief of his Secret Service detail, Mike Clemmer, came through the door. "Mike, I've got a favor to ask."

  "Anything, Mr. President," Clemmer said, entering the room. "Take this." He handed Clemmer an envelope with the presidential seal in the upper left corner. "And now, give me your revolver."

  Clemmer started to reach under his windbreaker, then stopped.

  "That's an order, Mike. There are two letters in the envelope. One is to my wife, the other is to the American people. Thurston Potter knows what to do with them. This is my last order, Mike. Give me your gun."

  Clemmer wiped his palms on t
he sides of his trouser legs and reached under his jacket to his right hip. The president watched as he produced a short-barreled, shiny revolver. "I don't know much about guns, Mike. Always wanted to try them, but never had the time. Does yours have a safety catch?"

  "No, sir. Revolvers don't. Mr. President, you can't. I can't let you."

  "You've got to, Mike. If I stay alive, the Russians will find me and use me. If I die, there will be no government left to capitulate, and free Americans will go on fighting until there is a government again-another elected government that will throw the Soviets out. If they get me, it's all over for all of us."

  "But Mr. President-they'll never get into Mt. Lincoln."

  "You know that's not true," the president said. "And if we're totally cut off, they've got a capitulation anyway. But if the American people know I'm gone, then the Soviets-no matter what they do-can't lie to the American people that the United States has surrendered. It's the only way. Now, give me the gun."

  The president looked away from Mike Clemmer and extended his right hand, lighting a cigarette with his left.

  He felt the heavy steel object in his hand, then heard the footsteps across the carpet. When he looked up, Mike Clemmer was gone. The president looked into the empty hallway through his open door.

  The president of the United States dragged heavily on the cigarette and held the smoke in his lungs. He glanced at the picture of his wife and children on the coffee table in front of him, then looked straight into the stubby muzzle of the revolver. He touched the first finger of his right hand to the trigger...

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Sarah Rourke turned on her heel and took the .45 automatic from the waistband of her blue jeans. The corners of her mouth raised into a smile and her green eyes lost their hard set. "Ron Jenkins," she said. The man she stared at was a familiar one, the retired Army sergeant who owned the next farm. He rode a tall Appaloosa gelding. She knew the horse well. On a bay, behind him, was his wife, Carla, and riding behind her on the same horse was their ten year old girl, Millie.

  "My wife and me-we was gettin' ready to clear out on horseback here, then we heard the explosion over your place this morning and I said to Carla, 'Betchya Sarah Rourke's got some problems-John probably ain't home.'"

  Sarah slipped the .45 automatic back into her waistband, gestured with the same hand toward the smoldering ruins of the house and said, "I guess you'd call them brigands or something. They wanted to rob us and-well, you know," Sarah said, turning away from the Jenkins family and looking back to the tack she was adjusting on her chestnut colored mare. The white mare with the black mane and tail and four black stockings-John's horse-was already saddled and the gear tied on. She finished adjusting the latigo strap on her own horse and turned back to the Jenkins. "Thanks for coming to see about us," she said quietly.

  "You want we should all ride together? I'm taking my wife and daughter up into the mountains. Not far, but should be safer," Ron Jenkins said.

  "Come with us, Sarah," Carla Jenkins said, leaning forward in her saddle.

  Sarah wiped the palms of her hands on the legs of her jeans, then glanced at Michael and Annie standing beside the barn. Carla Jenkins talked too much, and Ron Jenkins didn't talk enough-and their daughter Millie was a brat, Sarah recalled. But she looked at her children again. "I guess there's safety in numbers," she said. "I thank you for coming for us. I know it was out of your way. We'll be happy to come with you. I'm sure we can all help each other. I'm almost through here. I just have one thing to do."

  "I'll help your children get mounted up," Ron Jenkins said. "On your husband's horse-the white one?"

  "Yes-please," Sarah said, smiling. She walked back to the barn doorway and gave each of the children a nudge, then reached into her canvas purse and took a pen and the checkbook. She tore off a check and almost laughed as she found herself starting to write "void" across the front. They were all void now, she realized. She dropped to her knees on the ground and, using the checkbook to steady her hand, wrote: "My Dearest John, You were right. I don't know if you're still alive. I'm telling myself and the children that you survived. We are fine. The chickens died overnight, but I don't think it was radiation. No one is sick. The Jenkins family came by and we're heading toward the mountains with them. You can find us from the retreat. I'm telling myself that you will find us. Maybe it will take a long time, but we won't give up hope. Don't you. The children love you. Annie has been good, Michael is more of a little man than we'd thought. Some thieves came by and Michael saved my life. We weren't hurt. Hurry. Always, Sarah"

  She slipped the note inside a plastic sandwich bag-from Michael's lunch the last day he'd been in school. There was a nail already driven into the inside of the barn door, and she stuck the plastic bag over it, took one last look at the note, took the bag down and took out the check again. At the bottom, in larger letters, she scrawled, "I love you, John," put the note back in the bag and hung it back on the nail.

  Snatching up her black canvas purse, she turned on her heel and ran toward her horse, then climbed into the saddle.

  "You ready, Sarah?" Ron Jenkins asked.

  Sarah Rourke looked at the Jenkins family, then at her children, then pressed her heels gently against her horse's flanks. She held the reins from John's horse which carried Michael and Ann, in her left hand. As they started from the yard, she looked back. The ruins of the house were still smoking. But her attention focused on the barn door, the note to her husband nailed to the inside. Silently, she prayed that he was alive to read it.

  "Come on, Tildie," she whispered to the mare between her legs.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  John Rourke leaned back against a rock and stared at the wrecked airplane two hundred yards away. He closed his eyes, and he wanted to put his hands over his ears to shut out the moaning of the injured passengers-the ones he'd worked through the long day to save.

  "Mr. Rourke-coffee?"

  He opened his eyes. The stewardess-the same one who had helped him at the beginning-was standing beside him, a coffee cup in her hand.

  "Yeah, thanks," he said.

  "I don't believe the way you were able to get everybody out, Mr. Rourke, then go back for the things in the cargo hold. You're a real, live hero."

  Rourke smiled at the woman. "Well, going back into the cargo hold was pure selfishness. I needed the stuff I had there."

  "Those?"

  Rourke followed her eyes to the twin stainless Detonics .45's in the holster across his shoulders. "Yeah-and the other ones, too. I'm going to have to go into town for some medical help-if I can find it. There isn't much more I can do for most of the people who were injured. And when I leave you people, you may need to defend yourselves. And I need to defend myself when I try making it into Albuquerque."

  "Defend ourselves? From what? Surely, no one-"

  Rourke cut her off "Let me ask you a question," he said. "Would you have felt comfortable walking around in a high-crime area in Atlanta last night? Or any night?"

  "Well-no."

  "How about Chicago, New York, Los Angeles?"

  "Well-certainly I wouldn't have, but-"

  "Now, that's with police, civil courts, the whole shot of civilization. What about with no police, no courts, no laws-no civilization?"

  "But-"

  "People who'd hit you over the head to steal your money when there might be a cop looking will kill you to steal your food, your medical supplies, your ammunition-when their lives depend on getting it. You understand? Since last night, in almost any area you can think of, there is no law, no protection. The only recourse you have is yourself, or someone who cares enough about you to put himself on the line."

  "Is that why you're going for help, Mr. Rourke?" the stewardess asked.

  "Somebody has to," Rourke grunted. "I'm going to leave you in charge-with a gun. That Canadian businessman who was sitting next to me-what's his name?"

  "Mr. Quentin?"

  "Yeah, well he said that he sh
oots. I'll leave him a gun, too-two of them. If somebody shows up and starts acting funny, shoot first and ask questions afterward. Got it? I'm taking about five or six people in with me-just in case we can't get help to come out here, we'll be able to bring enough stuff back to do something. I make it twenty, maybe twenty-five miles into Albuquerque. We'll be there by dawn. Be back by tomorrow night, late, probably. So just hold out, huh?"

  Rourke took the stewardess aside and showed her how to work the Colt Python .357, then left it with her. He gave his CAR-15 rifle to his florid-faced ex-seatmate, along with the snub-nosed Metalifed Colt Lawman .357 revolver, reminding him the stewardess was in charge. Among the survivors, he found five men strong enough and willing to accompany him on foot to Albuquerque. He let one of the five carry his SteyrMannlicher bolt-action rifle. It was cool on the desert with night failing, and he pulled a sweater on over his shirt and the Allessi shoulder rig with his Detonics .45s, then pulled his sportcoat back on over the sweater. He started from the camp with his group. He heard the stewardess running after him.

  "Mr. Rourke! I thought you and the other men could use these." She handed him a paper bag.

  "Sandwiches?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Thoughtful, Miss...?" Rourke had still not bothered to learn the young woman's name.

  "Sandy Benson," she said, smiling.

  "You have a pretty smile, Sandy,"

  Rourke said, then turned and started away from the impromptu camp.

  He glanced at his watch, then at the hazy moon. The Rolex on his wrist read eight P.M. Shifting his right shoulder under the water bottle suspended there on a borrowed trouser belt, he looked at the five men with him and then at the open ground in front of them. He guessed they would make four or five miles an hour. With rest stops, they'd be in Albuquerque by sunrise or before.